


Fucking

by CrumblingAsh



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Brian Banner's A+ Parenting, Bruce Feels, Daddy Kink, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Protective Steve, Stark Spangled Banner - Freeform, Steve Feels, Tony Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 10:07:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3646278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrumblingAsh/pseuds/CrumblingAsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This, Steve thinks, could be the reason he continues living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fucking

* * *

 

 

Steve fucks Tony hard, relentless, in a pace that mimics punishment in its force -- enough to make the illusion, enough to reinforce it with every thrust that bruises hips against the metal of the workshop table (never enough to actually hurt).

 

Tony is high on it, always high on it, pupils blown so wide there’s nothing but black, lost in sensation and imagination. But he’s not far enough down, never far enough down, that he forgets to form his words. “Daddy,” he chants, low and breathy and constant. “Daddy, Daddy, _Daddy_ -.”

 

In echo, Steve never loses himself enough to forget what this is all about. “So proud of you,” he growls, rams into Tony harder to make him keen, the table jerk. Near-violent thrusts to add even more bruises. “So damn proud of you, Tony.”

 

The way Tony twitches at the words never fails to breed a deep guilt inside of Steve, to remind him of what he’d sacrificed and condemned to get into this life. The way that the other yearns for praise is sickening, disheartening, and Steve makes sure that he gets every ounce of it that he needs. “Daddy’s so proud of you.”

 

Steve comes, Tony doesn’t - doesn’t need to, shoots higher than climax can take him when Steve reaches completion, because as he does, he yanks Tony back against him, holds him as close as possible as he pants “I love you, I love you, you do so well for me, Tony. Daddy loves you” against his neck and into his ear, cradles Tony as he sinks back, liquid contentment and emotional release in Steve’s arms.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

With Bruce, it’s still fucking, but unlike with Tony, Steve is gentle. In bed, Bruce in his lap, facing him, eyes wide and unseeing as Steve slowly fucks up into him, deep and fulfilling and not rushed. They don’t have to rush.

 

Bruce swims in their time together; swims and floats, because if he reacts, reaches too far, it’s all lost to him, the illusion snapped. With Bruce, it’s a balance, a real effort to keep him exactly where Steve wants him to be; where he needs himself to be.

 

“Beautiful boy,” Steve murmurs, just loud enough to be heard over the sound of Bruce’s tiny whimpers. “My good boy. Love you, so much. Love you so much.”

 

“Daddy?” It’s small, a whisper chasing a breath as it always is. Fearful, yearning. If it’s Tony who twists Steve’s guilt, it’s Bruce who breaks his heart. He wraps a tender hand around Bruce’s cock, trails it up and down carefully as brown eyes flash with wary confusion. “Daddy?”

 

“Shh,” he soothes, rocks up as his hand goes down. “Daddy won’t hurt you, sweetheart. Daddy isn’t going to hurt you. You’re such a brave, _good_ boy. Daddy just wants to make you feel good.”

 

They both come – Steve first in whispered praise, then Bruce in grateful tears. He never really cries – no shaking or shuddering or sobs – just silent tears that track down his face; disbelief, confusion, _want_. Steve’s hands cup his jaw, thumbs brushing away what his lips don’t catch, pulls him in when they’ve gone, swaying, holding him.

 

* * *

 

 

Together, Bruce and Tony, it’s different. It’s almost normal.

 

Steve never leaves them alone, watchful as their hands explore one another, all tentative touches and a mixture of quick, fleeting smiles and joking smirks in the sheets. They’re so unsure of how this should work, both convinced they’re unworthy, that they’ll ruin what they already have. They’re so blunt, out of this room, so easy together, but here, stripped of every physical and metaphorical mask and barrier – Steve wonders if this is what people see, when they watch him draw.

 

It’s beautiful, when they finally kiss – their lips just resting together for a moment, relief to finally be there, exchanging between them an understanding trust – because they laugh; at themselves for taking so long, and each other for being ridiculous. It’s gorgeous, when they rut – slow, methodical movements, considerate drags, because it’s not the setting for anything more – Tony under Bruce because he understands without being told; because they know each other, when they remember that they do. But it’s perfect, when they look to him, quick glances they’re not sure if they can have, here – this is supposed to be something normal.

 

He smiles at them each time they do it, however, revels in the confidence they build each time they take his smiles as approval, and when they come, quietly and in soft, near inaudible whines of _“Daddy”_ mixed with their own names, it’s glorious.

 

It’s right.

 

They reach out and he goes without hesitation, lets their shaking bodies curl into him, accepts their chaste kisses and returns their whispered gratitude. He tells them how wonderful they are, how good, how happy he is that they can have each other.

 

He doesn’t tell them how thankful he is that they still want him; that they’ve given him a purpose outside of battle – something to take care of. And while deep inside Steve hates that they even _need it_ , hates that Tony’s mind is filled with poison, that Bruce expects pain, he’s happy that he can give himself to them.


End file.
